


The Treasury

by bonnie_wee_swordsman



Series: Imagine Claire and Jamie Prompts [14]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Gen, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:03:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnie_wee_swordsman/pseuds/bonnie_wee_swordsman
Summary: Show!Verse (based on 3x08/3x09)—Jamie and Joanie come across the trunk with Claire's Paris clothes





	The Treasury

Thought of the Lallybroch attic always made Joan’s heart race wi’ panic, though she’d only set foot inside it the once. 

She and Mam and Da and Marsali had all been over for supper shortly after the weddin’, months back, and the big folk had kept talkin’ and  _talkin’_ so late into the night like they’d never stop! Finally, she and Marsali had gotten so bored, they’d crept off to explore the house wi’ some of the other children, finding themselves at last up in the attic. The place was ghostly and drafty in the candlelight, and some of the boys had started tellin’ tales of spooks and ghouls and nuckelavees, sendin’ shivers down Joanie’s back. She’d nearly wet herself wi’ relief when the group all ran back down the steps into safety, giggling from the excitement of it. She’d giggled too, but never had she ever been so scairt in all her life. It had woken her, sometimes, the nightmares of bein’ trapped up there alone in the creaky darkness. 

Today, though, Da had held her hand as they went up the steps, and wi’ him beside her, the light of day shinin’ through the windows and cracks, Joan saw the place for what it was: a treasury, stacked all ‘round wi’ precious secret things just waitin’ to be discovered. She’d learnt that word in a book once, and always had loved the grand sound of it: the queen’s _treasury._

He and Mam had had a fight, that mornin’, a great stramash that had made all the rooms of the house echo. Joan had run out into the dooryard wi’ her hands over her ears. She hated when they did that: yelled at one another so. It was like havin’ Simon back in the house again. 

She bit her tongue the moment she’d thought such a thought, for Da wasna  _anything_  like Simon. Da never would beat them, and he was kind and funny— better than any man she’d ever met!  Well....for her and Marsali, at least. Mam didna seem to like him verra much. 

He’d stormed out of the door, startling her from where she sat. He’d gotten Baron saddled in a flash, and had just reined about to ride out to the road, when he’d spotted her. Though his face was red, still, from the yelling, he’d smiled at once, a  _real_  smile, and held out a hand. “Come wi’ me to Lallybroch,  _a leannan_?” 

After takin’ tea wi’ Auntie Jenny and Uncle Ian, Da had wandered about through the house. It seemed he wasna in any rush to get back to Balriggan or Mam. Joan wasna either, if she were bein’ truthful. They’d been in the library, Da showin’ her this book and that, but then he took a notion after a  _particular_  book that he couldna seem to find on the shelves. And so, the two of them had ended up in the attic, rummagin’ to find a box of things from when Da was at university in Paris. 

“D’ye recall what  _sort_ of box it would be in, Da?” Joan asked, rubbing her nose, which was running from all the dust kicked up in the air. 

She didna take much heed of his answer, for just at that moment, she’d caught sight of a lovely, big trunk over in the corner by the window in the eaves. She made for it eagerly, catchin’ open the clasps and flippin’ open the lid. 

_She gasped. TREASURE._

“Joan? Are ye alright?” came Da’s voice at once. “Joanie, did ye hurt your—” 

“Da, LOOK!” she squealed as she lifted the item on the top: a gown as red and glistening as a jewel. The fabric was fine and rare, and Joanie knew for certain that this was the most grand thing she’d ever held in her two hands. She felt almost as though she were in kirk, such a thrill it brought over her. 

_“Dinna touch those!”_

He was moving fast toward her and the look on his face made her spring up to her feet, jumping back. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, tears wellin’ up in her eyes at once. “I’m sorry, I willna touch it again— promise!” 

He didna say anythin’. He was crouched at the trunk, his eyes movin’ over the stuff inside in a crazed sort of way, as though he were afraid it would catch fire. That seemed to go on for long, long time, and Joan had to clamp her hands over her mouth to keep from burstin’ out into sobs. 

_Please dinna hate me...._

Then, he seemed to remember where he was. He looked up— _were those tears in his eyes, too?—_  and his face went all soft, but sorry-like, as though he were ashamed. “Forgive me, Joanie,” he whispered, holding out his arms to her. “I shouldna have snapped at ye.” 

All trembly, her gullet tight and burnin’ from tryin’ not to cry, she took his hand and let him pull her into a hug that brought happiness all the way down to her toes. “I hadna seen those things in many years, and they gave me quite a turn...” His voice was scratchy as he said it. “But truly,” he whispered, planting a kiss at the top of her cap, “I’m sorry, lass. Can ye forgive me for it?” 

All felt right again as she nodded and hugged him back, sniffling into his shoulder and lettin’ herself be held, just for a while longer. 

“Where did these  _come_  from, Da?” she asked a bit later as she turned back toward the chest, curiosity too strong to ignore. “All of these gowns and fine things!” At his nod of permission, she gingerly picked up a pair of gloves, embroidered with golden thread. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life! Did a queen live here, once, then?” 

He laughed, and she gave him a stern “ _What_?” for she hadn’t meant it as a jest. 

“Aye...she was a queen, of sorts.” He reached out a hand and traced his fingers across the crimson fabric, just like Joan had herself. His voice was very low and verra sad. “A lady who was verra special indeed.” He gently moved the red gown to the side to show the one beneath, and Joan heard him breathe out a wee smilin’ sound. 

“Why are they up  _here_ , though, Da?” she demanded, gingerly reachin’ out and strokin’ the lovely thing along wi’ him. It was greener than anythin’, even more than the grass in summer.  “Why does nobody wear them?”

“Can ye imagine your Auntie Jenny milking the goats in such a gown, then?” he said, laughin’ and makin’ her giggle too. “Nay, they’re from a different time, lass, before the Rising. No one’s quite the need of such finery anymore; not here, anyway.” 

“Oh.... that’s too bad.” Her heart was falling like stone. “They’re just so  _beautiful_...” 

She’d always hoped that when she grew up, there would be beautiful gowns and pretty things. They werena  _necessary,_ she supposed, and it wasna so much that she cared overmuch for them herself, as Marsali did. But the notion had always been a secret dream in her mind: that even if things since the Rising —since before she was born—had been naught but hard and sad, someday there would be beautiful things in her life too. Hearing it from Da, now, that there was no place for them—it made her want to crawl into the chest and nestle in amongst the gowns and fall asleep among their beauty. She thought that their wonder would seep into her skin, that way, and keep forever in her dreams, if there they must stay. 

There was a tear on her cheek, then another, but Da was nudging her, eagerly. “Shall we see what they look like on  _another_  fine lady?” 

Before she could answer, he was standing her on her feet and movin’ across the room, comin’ back wi’ a wee looking glass, which he propped up against the lid of the trunk. 

“What, ME?” she squawked. “Try them ON?” 

“And why not? It’s no’ as though  _I’m_  a lady, aye?” 

She giggled.

“Here...”

Minutes later, she was sittin’ on Da’s lap, looking at her reflection and hardly believing her eyes. The golden gown was around her shoulders, puddled huge about her like a great pudding, a fine comb holding up her hair in place of the plain cap, and in her hand was the most beautiful fan she’d ever seen. It didna look like herself, in the glass. 

“Da, I  _canna_  wear this,” she said uneasily, trying to stand up and remove the gown. 

“But of course ye can,” he said at once, holding her firmly, and she could see his smile in the looking-glass as well as hear it in his voice.  

“But Marsali says,” she insisted, “I canna ever wear yellow, because of my hair. Red-heided lasses  _canna_  wear gold or yellow or pink or—” 

“Nonsense! They can wear whatever they like,” Da said. 

“Aye? Truly?” 

“I give ye my word upon it,” he said solemnly. 

“Oh....well....that’s good then,” she said, still nervous that Marsali would barge in and tease her. She sighed. “I wish I had hair like Mam and Marsali.” 

He snorted. “Well _I_  dinna wish that.” 

That surprised her. “Do ye no’ think their hair is bonny?” 

“Oh, aye, it’s lovely... but  _red_  hair,” he said, runnin’ his fingers over the top of her head, “is my favorite.” 

“‘Cause  _you_  have it too?” she said, grinning. 

“Well, I’ve a longstanding personal partiality, to be sure,” he agreed with a grin as he let her tie a fine blue ribbon around his queue. “Besides,” he said, sounding dreamy as she finished the bow, “my own daug—” 

He stopped. 

“What, Da?” 

He stared at her for a moment, and she thought she’d never seen anyone with eyes so blue. “Only that your red hair is one of the things about ye that makes me happy, Joanie.” 

His voice was cracked and croakin’, and somethin’ in it made her lean forward and plant a kiss on his cheek. She felt his stubble tug against her lips as he smiled. 

“Besides—” He pulled her back onto his lap and tweaked the mirror so she could see the both of them in the glass. “Can ye no’ see for yourself how beautiful ye are?” 

And because he’d said it, she could. 

“What was her name?” she asked, her voice sounding like one in a dream, full of mystery, like the music of a priest’s prayer. 

“Her name?” 

“The queen-lady,” Joanie insisted. She had the the gowns and the fine things treasured up into her memory, now. All she needed was a name to finish the story in her mind. “What was she called?” 

“She...” 

Joanie watched his face as he tried to remember the tale. 

“Her name was Sorcha.” 


End file.
